


Late Bloomer

by tease



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Baby Bruce is my weakness, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:16:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tease/pseuds/tease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course Bruce's first steps would be amazing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Bloomer

**Author's Note:**

> Schiz asked for baby Bruce first steps

Bruce’s first steps happen without fancy fanfare.

Alfred is cooking breakfast for the still drowsy child plopped down in the common room to doze until he finished.  The house quiet but the sound of Alfred’s movements and the birds lively singing outside the manor windows.

The young boy rests on down comforters and goose feather pillows laid in a mini nest on the common room floor, woken by his parents’ morning rituals.  Blue eyes  opening and closing, lazily, mouth opening in bouts of silent yawns, nose reddening after each inhale.

Usually he’d be back to sleep, in his mother’s arms once they’ve bid Thomas Wayne goodbye for the day, but today his mother left for a charity event.  Left Bruce with the stately butler, thinking the gathering had too many people for the toddler to handle. 

But that day he slowly wakes with nothing, but the lulling creaks and groans of the mansion.

“Awf.” Bruce hugs his teddy bear against his chest.

The clueless birds chirp away, perched on the patio rails.  
  
“Awf?” Bruce’s dark hair swishes on his forehead as his head swivels back and forth, face scrunched as he searched for the aging butler.  

His eyes water, filling up with tears ready to burst, before he hears the clanging of pots and pans.  Face morphing with the relieved smile when he finds they come from the kitchen.

Bruce squeezes his teddy one last time, before he crawls on the hardwood floor on his hands and knees.  

His hands and knees make slapping noises against the cold floor, jarring and slow.

He moves toward the kitchen, babbling, stopping once in a while to stare curiously at the loud birds twittering.  

The kitchen tiles are colder to his small sensitive hands.  So pudgy fingers grasp the wall corner separating the kitchen and the living room to haul the swaying boy slowly up.  Tongue out as his knees leave the floor bit by bit.

Bruce smiles wide, in victory, with his legs bent and arms hugging the wall.  He toes the tile with one foot before letting go, wobbling a little side to side as he, at two years old, finally takes his first step.

Alfred continues to hustle and bustle in the kitchen, with the young boy standing a couple of feet away.

Bruce frowns with concentration as he throws his balance forward with a leg, then another, mimicking what he remembers seeing his parents and Alfred do when they move.  

His staggering gait, whole body wobbling, but strong.  He’s about to fall face first on unforgiving floor when Alfred’s legs appear right before his eyes.  Bruce grabs the black pants in front of him, head bonking with the momentum.

“Oh!” Alfred flips the stove off-switch, smiles down at Bruce. Eyes bright, stern lips curving at the corners, “Good morning, Master Bruce.”  The old man ruffles his hair affectionately, “Glad you could join me.”  
  
“Awf!” Bruce barks, laughs, prompting an even happier expression on the old man’s face, “Awf!” 

 ”That’s right, Master Bruce. Alfred.” The butler points to himself, “And you’re Bruce.”

“Bwus,” Bruce giggles, rubbing his nose on Alfred’s pant leg. “Bwus,” he says again, after pinching Alfred’s leg with a keening noise.  
  
“Yes, yes,” Alfred pats him on the head, “Now why don’t you help me make these pancakes.”  
  
“Cakes,” Bruce holds his arms up to be carried.  
  
 The old man utters a sharp laugh, “You had your mother and father worried, young sir.”  Bends down to pick up the eager child in a rush, eliciting a pleased screech, “They thought you might need medical attention, but I knew you’d talk and walk when the time comes.”

The young boy hugs Alfred’s neck.

“You are quite smart, aren’t you Master Bruce?” Alfred holds the young boy away from himself, to stare at clear blue eyes, “Can you point at the pancakes?”

Bruce’s mouth purses as his eyes scan the room, stopping at a single patty on a plate, “Cake!”

“Very good,” Alfred shifts him a little to pick up the plate, “Pancake for Master Bruce.”

“Bwus.” 

“Correct,” Alfred places the young boy in a high chair, to use the plastic child’s fork in cutting the patty to pieces before holding it in front of inquisitive eyes, “And here’s the fork to eat with.”

“Fork!” Bruce takes the blunt utensil with a shining grin.

Alfred ruffles his hair again, before turning back to his task of making more pancakes for himself and just in case. 

And  that’s how at age two Bruce shows Alfred, calm and amused Alfred, a prodigy in the making.


End file.
